Friday, February 18, 2011


If you had asked my Mama about patterns, she would have thought of sewing one of many dresses that she made for herself or perhaps the many quilts that she owned and made.  Had you asked my Grandmas about patterns she may have thought about the needlepoint she did for so many years before the arthritis betrayed her.

If you ask me about patterns I would tell you that Mama had IBS, my dad has IBS, and so do I.  I would tell you that there is a link between IBS and anxiety, and anxiety and depression and I know this first hand.  I would tell you that Gia Gia has a stubborn streak a mile long that she has passed on to her son, that he has in turn pasted down to his children.

If you asked my second grader about patterns he would most likely give you examples of the ABAB pattern that they talk about, practise, and look for in mathematics.  My four-year-old would say something, I guarantee you that he would vehemently back-up, but which most likely has no more of a connection to patterns then rice pudding.

Patterns.  What an amazing word, what a difficult concept.  Everyone has their own definition.  Patterns in math, science, life, art, behavior.  This is the one that trips me up every time.  Why is it so difficult to break a pattern in behavior?  Is it even possible?  If an alcoholic is always "recovering", will I ever be the mom who isn't yelling?  Or will I always be the mom is is a recovered yeller?

I can hear it now, said in a low raspy voice in some obscure but obvious church basement that smells of strong coffee and crayons...
"Hi, my name is Bad Mom, and I'm a fit thrower."
"Hi, Bad Mom."

What do we really know about changing behavior?  I've confessed to not being the type of parent to run to a book to find the answers.  In part because all the books say the same thing, this is your fault!  I already know that in my heart.  My kids didn't learn to throw a fit from the neighbor, nor the word idiot which the seven-year-old used on me this morning.  They learned from their mom, bad mom.

For all that we do right, or try to, it still seems to all come down to those few moments when the bus is coming and I'm screaming again and he says, "This is all your fault you idiot!"  And the words slap my face harder than even he could - you are right.

Anyone know which church basement???

No comments:

Post a Comment